Deeper Roads
by Fever Dream
Summary: Grey Warden Kassandra Tabris makes a decision with potentially fatal consequences, not only for herself but also for Alistair. As she struggles to come to grips with her choice, the final battle against the archdemon looms ever closer...
1. Duty and Doubt

Kassandra Tabris fed another log into the massive hearth of the Redcliffe guestroom and watched as the flames seared black paths along the ridged bark. Her fingers trembled and she had to clench her hands together to hold them still. She was already second-guessing her decision.

At the very least, she should have consulted Alistair before she rejected the offer, but it was too late to turn back now. Morrigan had run off in a fit of pique, transforming herself into a scruffy white dog. While Kassandra stood transfixed before the fire, the witch had likely cleared the estate and scurried off into the wilds, taking her strange proposition and her wounded pride with her. Only the shapeshifter's perfume lingered in the room, the mingled scents of dried blood and spice and night-blooming flowers.

Kassandra exhaled deeply and lowered her head, a thin braid of auburn hair falling over her cheek. Perhaps it was for the best that Morrigan was gone and the temptation to cheat death gone with her. There had been something shifty in the witch's narrow golden eyes, something furtive and cat-like in her movements when she spoke of the ritual, of a salvation through ancient magic and of possessing a child with the soul of an old god. When Morrigan told the truth, she had a blunt manner and a sharp tongue. When she resorted to lies, she was cryptic, smiling and strangely cheerful, suddenly pleased to be her mother's daughter.

Perhaps Morrigan didn't intend to do much harm, just a little mischief, maybe something only _moderatel_y evil...but no. It was a risk Kassandra knew she couldn't take. So many had died already and she couldn't gamble with the future of Ferelden, not for a dream of happily-ever-after that, likely as not, wouldn't come true. Another death, a good, proud death - she could accept that, if she had to. She had survived longer than most poor souls caught up in this Blight, longer than many children of the Alienage, for that matter, and she knew that she should have been able to pay the price without flinching.

It occurred to her, too, if that she died slaying the archdemon, even the people of Ferelden, so adept at forgetting the elvenfolk, would be forced to recognize the worth of what she'd done. Certainly that option had to be better than the life that had been mapped out for her in the Alienage: years of poverty, years of hopeless waiting in employment lines or bread lines, years spent trying to avoid conceiving children (even if sex was the best way to relieve the maddening boredom) because no one could afford another mouth to feed.

Of course, she could be pure and cold and logical about it all in the abstract, but the more inevitable death seemed, the more doors she heard locking behind her, the more she wanted to batter the stone walls with her fists.

A tentative knock sounded at the door, startling her with its timeliness.

She heard Alistair clear his throat. "My dear?"

"Just a moment!" Kassandra gave herself a quick once-over, rubbing her eyes dry and smoothing her hair back behind her pointed ears.

When she opened the door, she found Alistair examining a hallway tapestry, distractedly picking at a stray thread that had worked its way loose from the back of a griffin.

"Yes? Your Majesty?"

Alistair gave a start and turned around, blushing at having been caught in the act. "Never call me that, Kass. That's an order. I should have guessed that you were going to keep giving me grief about it."

His jaw was clenched and he looked uncomfortable in the ornate garments of a king. On her tiptoes, she managed to brush his chin with her lips before he stooped down to give her a proper kiss, the kind that still felt wonderful, urgent and breathless, better than anything she could have dreamed up in the Fade.

Alistair smiled down at her, his amber eyes warm as the firelight. "Darling?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind terribly if I asked you a favour?"

Kassandra paused, throwing him a slantwise smile. "Depends. How big a favour are we talking about?"

"Oh, a tremendous one," Alistair said. "I don't know how to put this, but - could you please scratch me all over? This new royal get-up of mine is very grand, no doubt, but it's also murderously itchy."

She laughed. "Ah, so I've been demoted to Royal Backscratcher, have I?"

Alistair raised his eyebrows, mimicking a wounded expression with startling ease. "I rather thought you'd leap at the chance to get your nails into my flesh. You seemed to enjoy it before or have I been deceiving myself?"

"Oh, alright! Just come in here and shut the door first, will you?"

He gave a triumphant grin as she tugged him into the guestroom. Once the door was shut and fastened, she slid her hands under his shirt, raking her fingernails over the curve of his muscled back.

"Oh, yes. Yes," Alistair groaned. "That is...very, very good."

She directed her attention to his chest, more for the selfish pleasure of running her fingertips over his nipples and down towards his hard stomach than out of any real desire to ease his suffering. He gave a delightful shiver and she delved a little lower.

"You realize, my liege, that if you keep that up, people passing in the hall are bound to get the wrong idea?"

"Well, I tend to think they have the right idea. Besides, making love to the lady of my heart is a nice, kingly thing to do. Surely much more regal than sitting on my makeshift throne scratching myself bloody and cursing the royal tailor."

Alistair pulled her to his chest, kissing her throat, his free hand sliding under the hem of her dress and up along her thigh. He navigated their bodies towards the large oak bed, walking her backward with ponderous, clumsy steps that threat to topple them both. When she fell, she fell backwards onto the bed and he was upon her, the weight of his body a relief, the only burden she'd ever wanted.

They undressed each other slowly, intently, almost as carefully they had the very first time, back when each piece of clothing concealed secrets: an old battle scar, a faded birthmark, a constellation of freckles. Over time and with much enthusiastic practice, their love-making had become easy, warm and familiar as the food they ate or the heat of the campfire, and they'd grown comfortable with the intimacy of their bodies entwined beneath the sheets.

Yet on this night, a new thrill passed between them, a sense of mystery, even of ceremony, that startled her. Alistair's skin appeared golden by the flickering light of the fire and when he gazed upon her, his eyes seemed to glint with hidden meanings – whether with love or with sorrow, she did not know. Afterward, they lay together, breathing almost in unison, her head resting upon his chest as he stroked her hair.

"We haven't talked – about it. Our most recent bit of...news," Alistair said. "How are you? Holding up, I mean?"

"I'm managing, I guess. The Grey Wardens are just full of surprises."

"Yes. That they are."

"How are you?" She shifted under the blanket, burying her face in the nook between his shoulder and his neck. "When we spoke with Riordan, you were doing that thing – that thing you do when you're trying not to show any facial expression."

"A thing? What thing? I do no such thing."

"It's hard to explain, but you set your jaw like a steel trap and you furrow your brow. If I didn't know you were concentrating on not being upset, I might think you were a little constipated."

He shook his head. "Hmm, am I really so entertaining? You don't have to keep an eye on me all the time, you know."

"You're right. Someone might think I loved you or something ridiculous like that," she said. "Now stop it with the stiff upper lip routine and tell me how you are."

Alistair sighed. "Oh, very well. I'm shocked, of course. And feeling quite foolish that I didn't know. I should have known. Some Grey Warden I am. They didn't even see fit to inform me about the secret vault, for Andraste's sake!"

"I'm sure they would have gotten around to telling you. After all the drinking games and such."

He rewarded her with a rueful smile. "It does seem rather important, doesn't it? Anyway, I want to let you know - to inform you, that sounds much more official, much harder to argue with – if Riordan should fall, I will be delivering the final blow. That's absolutely non-negotiable."

"Really? That's funny, because I already volunteered to be Riordan's second and he already agreed. Guess you missed your chance."

Kassandra was about to roll over when Alistair caught her shoulders and held her fast. "Then you will go and un-volunteer yourself."

When she refused to look him in the eyes, he grasped her face in his hands until she met his gaze. "Do you hear me? Kass? Please look at me. This is non-negotiable. Other things, such as whether you want to sleep on the right side of the bed or the left, those things I will certainly oblige you in. But you will not die for me. Understood?"

Kassandra bit her lips and frowned. A tear was starting to worry at the corner of her left eye.

"May I remind you that you're the king of Ferelden. The last of the Theirin bloodline? Sound familiar? You have obligations. If you want to martyr yourself, you'll have to wait your turn, Your Majesty."

Alistair's hands dropped away from her cheeks. "Maker's breath, you can't use that against me! I never asked to be king in the first place!"

"And I guess you'd like to give Ferelden to darling Anora?" Kassandra retorted. "Just think, she'll re-write all the history books to say what a wonderful hero her daddy was. Pardon me if I don't want to stick around long enough to see that."

He stopped for a second and seemed to ponder that. "Yes, I won't deny the reign of that creature would be a dreadful prospect. But seeing you die and knowing I could have prevented it: that's a worse one for me. A worse one by far."

Kassandra placed a solemn kiss on his lips. He tried to hold her down, to kiss her longer, but she struggled free, pressing a finger to his mouth before he could utter a protest.

"I'm glad – I'm glad that you feel that way, Alistair," she said. "But let's be realistic: in the big scheme of things, you're important. Your life matters to Ferelden and its future. I like my life well enough, but in the end, I'm just another elf, maybe one with a few tricks up her sleeve, but just another pair of 'knife-ears' all the same."

"That isn't true."

"I could have died in a room or an alley in Denerim a year back and not a dozen people would have noticed. You know what people in the Alienage think a good life looks like? A decent servant's job and a shack where ceilings aren't too low and the rent isn't too high."

"And so I'm supposed to conclude that because you come from humble beginnings your life is worth less than mine?" He gave an incredulous chuckle. "You do remember who my mother was? And that Goldanna is probably still taking in people's dirty laundry by the basket? This business of royalty being in the blood is all rubbish as far as I'm concerned."

"And that's why you're going to be a wonderful king," Kassandra said. "Maybe I didn't explain myself very well. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've never had...high expectations. After I killed Vaughan, I thought I was a corpse. And then Duncan saved me."

"As he saved me," Alistair said.

"Not from death."

"From being bored to death," he stipulated. "But yes, point taken."

She paused, taking deep breaths, her hands smoothing down the rumpled blanket. When she heard her voice, it sounded like an echo, as if it were coming from over a far-off mountain. "The way I see it – as I'm coming to see it, anyway - Duncan gave me a gift, this extra time to go and see the world outside, to be a Grey Warden and change things, maybe for the better. To have someone like you. I've lived so much. After that, I think that I can be at peace with dying for a good cause."

He wrapped his arms around her, one of his hands caressing her back with slow, soothing strokes. She shut her eyes and let her body fold into his.

"I wish you would simply let me be your hero for once," he whispered. "I think dying for you is quite romantic if you look at it the right way."

She hugged him closer, feeling his pulse throb against the sinews of his neck. "You are my hero, Alistair. That's why you need to survive this and be the king that Ferelden needs."

She gave a mirthless little chuckle, a preventative measure to keep the tears from coming. "Look, I'll admit it: I'm glad you made the offer. Duty and common sense aside, I would feel a little less eager to die for you if you didn't protest a bit."

"This is my decision and for once, you're going to take orders from me. I already told you: I will take the final blow. Non-negotiable," he said. "As a matter of fact, after that pronouncement, I probably should have got up, turned on my heel and marched away."

She stared up at him, a smile twitching the sides of her lips. "Without your clothes?"

"If necessary, yes. Absolutely starkers," he replied. "Walking out on you in the nude is a much better ploy than awkwardly hanging about, arguing with you when it isn't a matter up for discussion. As you can see, I still have a few things to learn about being king and bossing people about."

"Then there's nothing for it. I guess we'll just have to see who gets to the archdemon first," she said. "Maybe Riordan will beat us both to the punch."

"It's horrid to say so, but yes, that's what I'm hoping for. But, if he falls, I think it's only right that I take his place. It's my duty, as the senior Grey Warden here and as the king, whether you'll admit it or not."

"When I said that a king could do as he pleased, I wasn't referring to killing himself."

Alistair frowned. "Oh. Yes. That conversation. I was hoping we'd forget that unpleasantness ever happened. I didn't want to end this, Kass. I was just overwhelmed. And overwrought. And very, very stupid."

"Just for future reference, your timing was awful," she said. "If you wanted to talk about our future, it could have waited until we were alone."

"Well, we're alone now, so I'll say it again: I'm sorry. I'd been agonizing about it for days. After the Landsmeet, I burst into the room, saw you standing there and I...just started talking. It was like a bad dream, actually. Although, thankfully, I was fully clothed."

She smirked at him, thinking how lucky he was that his nervous rambling was endearing. "I don't know about that. It would have been much easier to handle if you'd been naked. Everyone would have just thought, 'Oh, look, there goes King Alistair again, babbling about something. Crazy as a loon.'"

"Oh, believe me, even with all my kit on, I'm good at making a public spectacle of myself. But you've forgiven me, haven't you? You must know by now how much you mean to me."

She paused, eyeing his face, trying to decide how to answer him. It was hard to deny the resentment she felt towards the Fereldan nobility, who would never accept her as anything but the king's elven whore, an amusing kink to gossip about in the booths of the Gnawed Noble.

Perhaps Alistair had taken a risk in coming this far with her, in being this open about their relationship, but they would never wholly belong to each other. There had been a moment after the Landsmeet when she felt, with sickening certainty, that he would fold under the pressure and let her go. Despite the darkspawn threat and the prospect of death at every corner, it was funny how the thoughtless arrogance of humans could still wound her. And how odd, how cruel, that she would learn to love one of them, perhaps more than her own life.

"Yes, I have forgiven you for that," she replied at last. "Although I remember mentioning that you would have to earn it."

He clasped her hand and kissed it, grinning at his show of gallantry. "That's easy enough to do. Let me kill the archdemon. I'll lay its head at your feet."

"Actually, I was thinking of something else."

"And what task would you put before me, my lady?"

"I was thinking," Kassandra said, "that in the winter, you should go and find a lamp post. And then you should stick out your tongue and you should lick it. Do that and I will forgive you without another word."

He pounced on her, laughing, and pinned her down on the bed. "Oh, you are a cruel one, madam. But since there are no lampposts hereabouts and it's the middle of June, perhaps I could just lick you instead?"

She smiled. "I guess it's a start."

"Then perhaps will you be kind enough to allow me to stay here for the night? I fear this may be the last time we will have this much privacy. Or such a comfortable bed."

"Yes, I would like that. I would like that very much," she said. "Alistair?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Hold me for a while, just like this. I'm feeling – a little cold, that's all."

Alistair lifted his head to glance at the hearth. "Shall I see if I can revive the fire? It does seem to be waning."

"No, don't worry about that. Stay here. Just hold me for a while."

"I can do that," he said, and he was true to his word.

The flames guttered, diminished and then died out. They lay together in the darkness, their arms about each other. The room was silent except for the sounds of their breathing, the almost-imagined whisper of bodies moving under a blanket. If she kept her eyes open, if she could just stay awake, if she could hold the air in her lungs a little longer, Kassandra almost believed that she might extend the moment into hours, days, weeks, years, a quiet eternity, and the morning would never come.


	2. The Road to Denerim

The first day of the forced march to Denerim dawned bright, full of false promise. It wasn't until later in the morning that it began to rain, big hard drops that hit the troops like an onslaught of pebbles. The roads became muddy and treacherous, resulting in a rather comical incident in which a gaunt, solemn-looking mage lost his footing and fell squarely on his rear. Two of the wagons got stuck in the mire, a far less amusing occurrence, and had to be emptied out, with oxen, Mabari and infantrymen hauling the supplies on their backs.

For the better part of the day, Kassandra tramped along the road beside Oghren and her Mabari, Cairn. She was in a miserable mood, which seemed to suit Oghren just fine, since he was almost perpetually cranky, besides being hungover from drinking with Bann Teagan the night before. She was just glad that, unlike Wynne, the dwarf didn't interrupt her griping with admonitions to set a good example for the rest of the soldiers.

"You mustn't walk around looking so sour," Wynne had told her. "As a Grey Warden, these people will be watching you, you know. You can't expect their morale to stay high if you walk around scowling under that hood of yours. "

Leiliana had chimed in. "When I was a little girl in Orlais, my mother used to say that the Maker sent the rain to wash the world clean of wickedness. So it's actually a good thing. Besides, if our feet get muddy, at least we're wearing these ugly boots instead of something pretty."

"Yes, well, that's a very nice sentiment, but I just stepped in a puddle and now my ugly boots, my socks and my feet are soaking wet," Kassandra had muttered in reply. "The next time you pray to your Maker, maybe you can ask him to choose between sending us darkspawn hordes and giving us horrible weather, because I'm certainly not going to endure both at once."

Walking alongside Oghren was easier than dealing with the sunshine brigade, although he burped or farted at least once for every three steps he took. Kassandra felt sorry for the unfortunate group of dwarves standing downwind.

"So where did that witch go off to?" Oghren said. "The one who turns into things and has a soddin' nice set of... poultices? You and that ol' templar of yours didn't tie her to a stake and burn her up, did ya?"

"And if we did?"

The dwarf gave her a sly wink and tugged at his braided red beard. "Well, you could have at least waited for the rest of us. Would've been a right good time. Could've rounded up some pigeons to take a squat on that crazy golem while we were at it."

Kassandra gave a spiteful chuckle at Shale's expense. "Sounds like a plan. I'll get the birds, you get the booze."

"Nah, but seriously: where are you hiding the witch?"

"I'm not hiding her anywhere. She decided to leave. I wasn't going to stand in her way."

"Just buggered off when the going got tough, huh? Typical."

"I don't know - on a day like today, I start thinking Morrigan might have had the right idea."

An ugly joke - not really a joke at all, but a metallic taste on her tongue, a poison in her veins. It was hard not to question herself and to doubt the wisdom of her choice, knowing that there had been another option lurking behind door number two.

Kassandra pulled the folds of her hood closer around her face, but it didn't help much against the downpour. Her hood was wet, the rain was wet, the road was wet, everything in the whole of the Ferelden was soaking wet and she was drenched to the bone.

"Bloody rain," Oghren mumbled. "This is why dwarves stay underground!"

That got a couple enthusiastic whoops from the dwarves behind them. Oghren looked back at them and cracked a grin.

Encouraged by his fans, the dwarf kept right on grumbling. "Bloody archdemon. Right now I just want to sod off, find one of your top-sider pubs and get a little hair of the Mabari that bit me."

"What in the name of Shartan were you and Bann Teagan drinking last night?" Kassandra asked. "Bella ran out of ale weeks ago."

"Golden Scythe 4-90 and pickle juice. But mostly pickle juice. 'Course you didn't hear that from me. Teague wouldn't like that getting around to you so much," Oghren said. "Heh, let me tell you, that guy, he drinks like he's right out of the Warrior Caste. And he's a single feller, too. The only sodders I know who drink like that are married. Usually to Branka."

The rain stopped by late afternoon but a vicious wind kept blowing out of the east and the sky remained a dreary shade of grey until evening fell. They set up camp a little distance from the road on a sparse plain and the place soon become a study in chaos. Under the guidance of their commanders, the soldiers busied themselves with pitching tents, laying down bedrolls, seeking out fuel for the fires and distributing rations.

Kassandra and Oghren managed to locate Sten and Shale in the bustle, but then again, it was hard to lose a seven-foot-tall Qunari and a massive, crystal-studded golem amidst Dalish elves and dwarven axemen. Finding Wynne, Zevran or Leiliana proved to be more difficult tasks. Kassandra suspected that Zevran was most likely to be found bewitching a female mage in her tent or failing that, stowed away in a handsome officer's bedroll, but she didn't get a chance to test her theory.

She didn't even bother to search around for Alistair, as much as she would have liked to catch a glimpse of him after the night they'd shared. Arl Eamon had knocked on the door of her guestroom well before sunrise to abduct a sleepy Alistair out of her bed for an early debriefing on the march. She imagined that the poor man would be taken up with his royal duties until late into the evening. No doubt he was sitting in a tent with the various banns and arls, looking over budgets and maps while they drank wine and ate pheasant. Knowing Alistair, he'd rather be out mucking around with tents in the mud, but at least he was enjoying a good supper.

Upon returning from her search for the others, Kassandra discovered an aromatic pot of stew bubbling over their campfire.

"Smells pretty good," she said. "Who's been cooking?"

"Don't look at me," Oghren said. The dwarf cast a doubtful look over at stone-faced Sten, who stood with his arms folded across his chest.

Kassandra smiled at the white-haired giant. "Did you cook this, Sten?"

He responded with his signature glacial stare. "I did."

"Where did you learn to cook like this?" Kassandra asked, stooping to spoon some stew into her bowl. "And why have we been letting Alistair feed us charred rabbit and that grey sludge he calls soup all this time?"

"In answer to your first question, from my mother," Sten replied. "In answer to your second question, I do not eat food prepared by the templar. But yes, it is very bad."

The stew was wonderful, tangy and sweet. They'd planned on saving some for the others, but by the time Zevran wandered over with a mysteriously contented look on his face, they'd pretty much scraped the bottom of the pot.

"How very unfortunate. Ah, well, at the very least, I have managed to sate my other appetites," Zevran said, licking his lips.

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, elf," Oghren grumbled. "You were off in somebody's tent letting them braid your pretty yellow hair."

"That is a strange euphemism for carnal passion, my dwarven friend, but yes, I was entertaining a pair of lovely archers of the Dales," Zevran replied. "Twins, if you can believe it, both with very charming bosoms, although nothing to compare with our winsome lady Wynne."

A fanfare of trumpets blared at the head of the encampment.

Oghren cringed and cradled his head in his fleshy hands. "By the Stone, what's all that bleedin' racket? It figures they'd bring out the trumpets when I've got a post-boozin' headache fit to split my skull in two."

"I was obviously somewhat distracted by my Dalish lovelies, but I heard a rumour that good King Alistair is going to make a speech. For motivational purposes, I suppose, since we have been walking the entire day getting rained upon," Zevran said. "Now, say what you will about Antiva, but while we do a vast deal of murdering, the climate is generally quite pleasant."

"Oh damn," Kassandra said. "Alistair? Giving a speech? Have to go!"

As she hurried off in the direction of the hubbub, she heard Zevran call after her: "Have fun, my friend! And try to keep the man from getting assassinated!"

This may not be pretty, Kassandra thought, as she wended a path through the crowded encampment. Alistair was an ideal partner on the battlefield and certainly had talents in other areas, but as far as she could tell, oratory did not number among them. His impromptu speech at the Landsmeet had started off as an unmitigated disaster and then evolved into a pleasant mediocrity, just decent enough that his sympathetic audience rewarded him with a smattering of applause instead of pelting them all with rotten vegetables. Considering the mood the army was in after their first day of marching, Kassandra wondered if they would be quite so charitable to an untrained public speaker cutting into their mealtime.

But then, as she neared the assembled crowd, something gratifying and decidedly unexpected: she actually heard people cheering.

Alistair waited until his audience had quieted once more and then resumed his speech.

"Our first day on the march has been difficult and, well, certainly quite wet, but I am amazed at the strength and the spirit of our forces.

"I witnessed the determination and bravery of many today: the endurance of the soldiers who carried our supplies on their backs when two of our wagons failed, the patience of the nurses and mages who have been keeping our warriors healthy, those who walked with us even in the worst of weather.

"I know that the compassion, the comradeship and humour I have seen today will carry us through any obstacles we may encounter. It is these simple bonds that will keep us going in our quest and it is these things that remind us why we are proud to live in this land of Ferelden.

"Indeed, it is the impediments we encounter and the lessons that we learn together in this march that will draw us into a single unit, a team of warriors, mages, elves and dwarves such as Ferelden has not seen for four hundred years, an army that will defeat the Blight and return our homes to renewed prosperity. As your king and a dedicated Grey Warden, I am look forward to the day of our victory, the day when we will rid Denerim of this scourge and once again be able to call Ferelden free."

There was more noisy applause and among the crowd, some of the more boisterous soldiers hollered out their approval. Kassandra clapped and cheered along with them, feeling very relieved and a little ashamed she hadn't put more faith in Alistair's abilities. After all, she believed in him enough to fall in love with him, enough to help place him on the throne of Ferelden - enough to die in his stead if it came down to it. While he wasn't a master statesman yet, she should have expected that he'd put more effort into his next speech after getting so tongue-tied at the Landsmeet.

She turned away from the crowd, setting her sights on her party's distant camp. It would be fun to be able to report on Alistair's success to their friends and she planned to do a little gloating on his behalf.

"Grey Warden? Lady Tabris?"

She reeled around to see one of the Royal Guardsmen standing before her, instantly identifiable by his silver halberd and the funny red hat that went with the uniform, one that sat on his head like an exceedingly fluffy pancake.

He looked so solemn and officious that she was tempted to laugh. Did he seriously think that she went by the title "Lady Tabris"? Was he under the false impression that the Alienage was some kind of exotic elves-only palace bedecked with ornate tapestries and glittering chandeliers?

"I'm Kassandra Tabris of the Grey Wardens, if that's who you're looking for," she said, controlling her mirth.

"I've been asked to escort you to the Royal Tent, Lady Tabris. Will you please accompany me now?"

Again with the "Lady Tabris". Well, this is new, she thought. She'd never been officially summoned to the Royal Presence before - well unless one counted running around Orzammar at the beck-and-call of that nasty little Prince Bhelen. Of course, she suspected an audience with King Alistair would be a trifle more enjoyable than spending time in a glorified dirt pile with a surly, cauliflower-nosed dwarven princeling.

Her escort opened the flap of a sturdy purple tent and she stepped inside.

Alistair arched an eyebrow at her from his place on carved wooden stool, a seat that - while much nicer than the usual allotment of rocks, logs and lumpy bedrolls - was certainly not up to the exalted standards of a throne. Arl Eamon stood at his side, looking tired and grave as he sorted through some troublesome-looking papers.

"Sire, I'd like to draw your attention to the amount of money we've expended on elfroot for poultices. I would suggest that we..."

Alistair raised a hand to stop him. "Would it not be possible to discuss this tomorrow morning when I am feeling a bit more refreshed?"

"It will only take a matter of minutes..."

"That may be so, but I am exhausted and should like to relax an hour before sleep. I imagine you must be dead tired as well, Eamon. You've been working hard today. Let's revisit this in the morning, shall we?"

"Ah, very well," the Arl said, casting a wry glance at Kassandra. "Young men must have their pleasures, I suppose. Good evening - to you both."

The moment the Arl departed, Alistair broke into an adorably silly grin. "So? What did you think of my big speech?"

She laughed. "You were magnificent."

"I remembered to talk about the Blight this time without you stage-whispering at me and poking your elbow into my ribs. That must mean I'm improving."

"You are," she said. "Not that I had any doubts." Or at least any that she'd mentioned out loud.

"So... what was your favourite part of my magnificent speech?"

"The part where you didn't screw it up," she teased.

"Hey! I thought I was 'magnificent' here."

"I'm just joking. But if we're speaking in all seriousness, I like the fact that you gave examples of what people have been doing to help," Kassandra said. "It shows that you watch them and you care what they're going through. I appreciated that. I think the soldiers did too."

Alastair rubbed the stubble on his chin, looking quite pleased with himself. "Ah. So you were paying attention, instead of just staring at me and picturing all kinds of lascivious things. Well, I mean, that would have been alright too, but it's nice to have people actually listen when I talk at them. "

"Your speech was very well-done," she assured him. "In fact, hearing about how good everyone else has been made me feel a little ashamed of myself because I've been grumpy and miserable all day long. Maybe tomorrow I'll behave myself better."

He laughed. "Sometimes I rather enjoy you when you're grumpy and miserable. You're a lot of fun to tease."

"So is there a reason that you sent that poor confused guardsman out to find me, instead of walking all of ten meters to do it yourself?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd have a bit of fun, that's all. Have to enjoy this King thing while it lasts."

"While it lasts?"

"Well, as long as it should last," he said in a measured tone. "However long that might be, considering we have some nasty archdemon business to attend to over in Denerim."

"You're going to be king for a good long time. So, yes, you should work on enjoying it."

Alistair furrowed his brow and managed to look almost stern. "Surely we don't have to have this argument again, do we? There are much more pleasant things to talk about. You still haven't told me how you like your new title, Lady Tabris."

"What?" She recoiled in shock. "You can't be serious. People are going to walk around calling me that? All the time?"

He chuckled, the edges of his eyes crinkling. "Did you think the guardsman had gone daft? I suspected you might."

"I didn't know what to think. A case of mistaken identity? Although, when that happens they usually holler 'Hey elf!' and then order me to fetch their boots."

"I thought a little vengeance was in order," Alistair said. "You helped make me into a king, after all, and now I can't throw a boot without hitting someone who wants to bow and scrape and call me 'Your Majesty'. Now you know how I feel a little."

Kassandra gnawed at her lower lip and gazed at her muddy boots. She was surprised at how uncomfortable she felt at this turn of events. It was awkward to be an elven commoner amidst human nobles, but now Alistair was trying to close the gap and it was nearly as strange.

"Maybe you should make things easier and just call me 'Lady Knife-ears'," she said. "You know that's what most of the nobility will call me behind my back, whenever one of them is clever enough to come up with it."

"I know you have ample reason to loathe them and to expect nothing good from any of them, but most people born into the nobility aren't monsters like Vaughan. When you're being rational about it, you know that."

She nodded. "I do. Most of them are fine. I just wish that when they spoke to me they wouldn't feel compelled to mention how odd it is that I'm not polishing the silverware."

"But there are some nobles who don't see things that way. Eamon, for example; he has a sincere respect for you and for everything you've done at Redcliffe," Alistair said.

"He's a good man."

"And that Teagan is rather fond of you too. Although sometimes his respect is a little too sincere for my liking," he added. "I fear one of these days I may have to challenge him to a duel. And I'm even a bit of a noble now, come to think of it..."

Kassandra smiled in spite of herself. "'A bit of a noble'? I'd say that's the understatement of the year."

"So, admit it: not all people with titles are repulsive snobs."

"Yes, Your Majesty. As you command. I'll try not to discriminate against the rich and powerful."

"Besides, if any of them should harass you - well, I'll just chop off their heads," Alistair deadpanned. "Or put them in the Tower with Anora, so they can all be insufferable together. That will show 'em."

Kassandra clasped his hand, knitting her fingers through his. "The title...it's considerate of you. It's not that I don't appreciate the thought. I do. It's a beautiful thought. But do you think it's really a good idea?"

He gave her hand a squeeze. "You are a Grey Warden leading our efforts to defeat the Blight and the woman I love. Trust me, it's a good idea."

"I must warn you," he continued, "that this title is mostly symbolic at the moment. It doesn't come with fabulous riches and it's not a fraction of what you deserve, but right now, it's what the Arl thinks I can get away with."

"That's fine by me. Thank you. I don't know what to say to that. Should I bow? Curtsey?"

"Why don't you kiss me? That will do nicely."

"I think I can manage that," she said, sliding into his lap. She planted a quick kiss on his left cheek and then a long one on his lips.

Alistair sighed. "Well, my good Lady Tabris, I think there's a bottle of red wine hiding somewhere hereabouts. It's been a very long day and I think I've earned the privilege of getting good and drunk."

"And here I thought you were a nice Chantry boy I could bring home to Father," Kassandra said.

She scrambled off his lap to search for the wine. "But, yes: good and drunk sounds wonderful at the moment."


	3. Campfire Tales

With the benefit of better weather, the ensuing days of marching were less gruelling, although the army passed through long stretches of countryside ravaged by the Blight. The area around Lothering was particularly dreadful, burned-out buildings and scorched trees where scavenger birds huddled, cackling and flapping their black wings.

Thankfully, they encountered few fresh corpses along the road, mostly just wreckage and yellow bones, and the troops were spared the grisly spectacle the darkspawn usually made of their victims.

Kassandra remembered the first time she'd witnessed the sort of calculated brutality the darkspawn were capable of. Bearing flames to light the Tower of Ishale's beacon, she and Alistair had burst through a massive metal door and discovered a carefully composed circle of pikes. Impaled on the sharpened ends of these pikes were the heads of men, soldiers, their faces locked in the agony of their deaths. There had been worse sights since then – far worse – but that image had stuck with her, perhaps because it had been the first moment when she'd feared that she might not have the stomach for this Grey Warden thing. It certainly wasn't the last.

Now that she was in a more pleasant humour, she tried to atone for her grumpiness to Leliana, chatting with her about shoes and clothes and the antics of her pet nug, Schmooples. By Leli's account, Schmooples was a brilliant and sensitive creature, a veritable Paragon among nugs. Kassandra had never seen any evidence to support this argument, although Schmooples was smart enough to stay away from Cairn, who seemed to think she was the right size for a snack. Most of the time, the nug just squirmed around in Leliana's knapsack, driving everyone half-mad with its incessant squeaking.

After the stew surprise, word had spread around the group about Sten's culinary skills. Apparently having nothing (and no one) better to do, Zevran had mounted a campaign to persuade the Qunari to cook for them at least once more before they reached Denerim.

"Sten, my good man, surely you would not want me to die on an empty stomach," Zevran said.

"The condition of your stomach does not concern me. Now leave me be."

Zevran laughed and offered the Qunari his most charming smile. "Ah, you are being difficult now, but in this world of ours, everyone has a price. Shall I buy you a woman? A man? One of each? Or do Qunari tastes run to something more...exotic?"

Sten scowled. "You disturb me, elf."

"So it is not about sex. Most strange," Zevran said. "This is more challenging than I suspected. What's your game then?"

"Parshaara! Has it occurred to you that there is no game?"

"Oh, but there is always a game," the elf replied. "I would like you to cook us a decent meal. You desire something in exchange, but you are being much too stubborn to tell me what it is."

Sten sighed. "Very well. I will cook, with one condition. You must get me those flat, crumbly things."

"Flat and crumbly, you say? My sincerest apologies, friend, but I fear I do not follow."

"Ugh!" Sten lifted his hands in frustration, as if he could seize the pesky words out of the air and crush them into submission. Alas, they eluded him and he dropped his fists back to his sides in utter defeat. "What is the word? These things, they are baked and delicious."

"Cookies," Wynne interjected. "I believe those are cookies, Sten."

"Yes. As you say. Cookies. Get me those and I will prepare a meal."

Kassandra wasn't sure how Zevran managed it, but the next morning, he appeared back at their camp with a platter of misshapen objects, slightly burned around the edges, that were nevertheless recognizable as oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

"Zev, where did you get those?"

"You don't want to know," the elf muttered glumly. "I pray you, do not make me speak further on this unpleasant subject. I am a desperate man and I have done unconscionable things."

Kassandra ventured a guess. "You killed a baker."

"Unfortunately, no."

"You seduced a baker."

"Closer to the mark. But no," Zevran replied. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must deliver that Qunari brute his precious sweets. And he would be well-advised to prepare me the most exquisite meal this side of Antiva or his next batch of cookies will contain some unexpected ingredients."

Sten lived up to his word and they enjoyed a number of hearty and delicious meals in the days thereafter. As exhausted as she was at the end of each day, Kassandra savoured those last evenings in camp. There was comfort to be found in smell of shared food cooking in an iron pot and the faces of her companions softened by the glow of their fire. They huddled in a tight circle for warmth and Leliana recited ballads of adventure and romance from the courts of Orlais. Sometimes, Alistair managed to procure them some ale too, consumption of which invariably caused Oghren and Zevran to reel off their respective collections of dirty jokes.

Oghren insisted that dwarves were the only race capable of telling a really filthy story and some of his anecdotes were absolutely revolting, usually about excessive flatulence in a mining shaft or trying to take a dump in the Dead Trenches. However, when it came to jests that were truly wicked and debauched, Kassandra would have had to hand the trophy to Zevran. His first joke had left Wynne so flustered she had to go off and hide in her tent to regain her composure. It took a lot to make an Alienage girl sputter and blush, but Zevran managed it with Kassandra on his third joke and he was just warming up.

By the time Alistair managed to join them at the campfire, Zevran was on such a roll that Oghren had fallen off his log and simply lay on the ground in a drunken dwarven heap, chuckling and hiccupping and rolling back and forth as if he were trying to get up again but couldn't quite manage it.

"Good soddin' evening! It's about time you showed up. You ever hear the one about the Orlesian horseman who married a one-eyed dwarven wench?"

"Um, no. Sadly, I have not." Alistair said. "Well, I can see we've all been keeping ourselves in top form for the big assault on Denerim. We're going to drink that archdemon under the table."

Kassandra giggled, a little worse for the drink herself. "Oh, just sit down and let him get to the joke already!"

"Alright, alright," Alistair said, easing down beside her. "Tell us the story, Oghren. I'm sure it will be most enlightening."

Oghren didn't reply. He'd rolled on to his side and lay perfectly still.

"Oghren?" Alistair said.

"That does not appear healthy," Sten noted.

Shale's eyes sparked with white light. "I believe it may have curled up and died. Pity."

"Sometimes I wish your control rod came with a mute button," Kassandra replied.

Shale gave a haughty snort. "It thinks it is very funny, doesn't it? It is incorrect."

Leliana stood up to go examine the dwarf, but Zevran raised his hand to her.

"Sit down and do not trouble yourself, good lady. It's simply a matter of waiting a few moments."

They sat staring at one another across the flickering campfire.

"This is ridiculous," Alistair said. "He may have drunk himself to death. We should fetch Wynne."

"No, no, no," Zevran said. "Good sir, have patience. "

A few seconds later, they heard a loud belch and Oghren began to snore like a sawmill.

Zevran smiled, pleased to have been vindicated. "You see? Nothing to worry about. He does this all the time. Now let me tell you a little story about a certain infamous brothel in Antiva City known as The Queen's Garter..."

By the next evening, Kassandra could make out the familiar outline of Denerim on the horizon, the turrets of the royal palace and the high tower of Fort Drakon unmistakeable even from a distance. An ominous column of smoke rose from the city, a black line cutting across a dusky sky. Everyone marched faster, driven on by the sight of it.

Their scouts reported three units of genlock archers encamped ahead as the army moved along the main route to Denerim.

"We should rid ourselves of them quickly or else we may find them at our backs," Alistair said.

Arl Eamon nodded. "I agree. They could pose a nuisance."

"A small band of mages could take cover at the ridge and distract them by mounting a first attack from a distance," Kassandra suggested. "In the mean time, it wouldn't be hard for me to take a party back into the woods. We'd wait there, close in and flank them."

"Well, I'm game for that," Alistair said. "It'll be a relief to get back to killing darkspawn, instead of just talking about it."

Riordan gave them a knowing smile and shook his head. "No Grey Warden should participate in this mission. Think about it. What if you were to be injured or perhaps even killed? Grey Wardens are our most valuable commodity in the coming battle. We can't risk throwing you away in a petty skirmish."

Kassandra raised an eyebrow, amused at this sudden concern for her well-being. Before the Landsmeet, she and her companions had been imagining that ending the Blight was going to be a do-it-yourself project. "You realize we've killed a whole bunch of darkspawn before this, right? That we've faced peril at every turn? I have no intention of dying at the hands of some pathetic genlock."

"If I have to die, I won't settle for being slaughtered by anything less than an orc. Or a very large dragon," Alistair said.

"Yes, I'm aware that you've killed numerous darkspawn and that you're quite good at it," Riordan replied. "But be reasonable. You have a bigger mission here and we can't endanger it just because you want to have a hand in every fight."

Kassandra sighed. Riordan was completely and utterly correct, of course. "You're right. We're just not used to having an army to rely on."

She gave Alistair a conspiratorial smile. "Well, Your Majesty, I guess we're stuck hanging around the camp again tonight."

"Oh, blast it," he joked. "I suppose we'll just have to make up our darkspawn-killing quota tomorrow then."

"It's good that you both are trying to keep a sense of humour about it," Riordan said. "Just don't forget that this is serious business."

Alistair cast his gaze to the pillar of smoke on the horizon. "You needn't worry about that," he murmured. "It's difficult to forget it when Denerim is burning before our eyes."

They lay down camp for the night on the banks of the River Drakon, the gates of Denerim not far ahead. The tension in the camp was palpable, something that churned in the air. It made some of the soldiers rowdy, eager to dine, to drink and carouse, and left others eerily quiet as they arranged their gear for the day to come. As darkness fell, there came a desperate sense of camaraderie, troops gathering under the torchlight to share ale and sing backcountry songs.

Kassandra watched the mages file into their own protected space, where they prepared for battle under the supervision of templar guards. Whirling their arms in the air, they extended their minds into the Fade, robed bodies merging into a gossamer veil of lyrium and light.

Everyone had their rituals. They did what they had to do. After tomorrow, it was entirely possible that none of them would ever again be able to feast on rich food or drink too much ale, to roar with laughter or make love, to look up at the stars or feel the grass between their toes. In the hours before sleep, they lived greedily, taking whatever they could get.

Much later in the evening, Kassandra lay on a plush bedroll, lightheaded and giddy with wine. Alistair sprawled beside her, his arm wrapped around her back, his fingers tickling at her shoulder.

"I've been thinking...You know what would make this moment even more wonderful?" he mused.

"What?"

"If we had some cheese. Maybe one of those nice cheese platters that come with bunches of grapes."

She laughed, giving his chest a light slap. "Typical. This could be our last night together and you're fantasizing about cheese!"

"Well, you can't deny that it is delicious," he said. "Besides, I'm fantasizing about eating cheese with you, my love. It simply doesn't get any more romantic than that."

"You're king, Alistair. If you really want some cheese, command one of your loyal subjects to go and get us some."

"They can't find any. I already asked," he admitted, looking a little sheepish. "I don't know what sort of fool king goes off to defeat the Blight without extra rations of cheese, but apparently that's just the sort of fool king I am."

She gave him a consolatory kiss on the cheek. "When the Blight is over, I'm sure the grateful people of Ferelden will throw their king a big parade and lavish you with fine cheeses."

He made a funny face, something between a grin and a grimace. "Hmm, yes - when you put it like that, it does sound a bit silly."

"Your obsession with cheese? Silly? Never!" she teased.

He chuckled but his smile didn't last. They'd tried to distract one another these past few hours with jokes and love-making and the sort of meandering conversations they used to enjoy on their travels, when time, like the road, had seemed to wind on into a vague, wonderful distance. But they could only avoid the truth for so long.

"Are you prepared?" he asked. "For tomorrow?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," she said.

"I need you to make me a promise. Can you do that?"

She narrowed her eyes, not liking the sound of that one bit. "I don't make promises without knowing what they involve."

"I want you to promise me that, if Riordan falls, you'll respect my wishes and let me slay the archdemon. It's my right and my duty."

She stared up at the wooden poles that held the central peak of the tent aloft, at the purple tent cloth draping downward in soft folds. "Do we really have to talk about this again? I thought we agreed that whoever gets there first gets to kill the thing."

"I never agreed to that."

She rolled onto her stomach, crossing her bare legs behind her, and fixed him with a challenging stare. "That's too bad, because that's how it's going to have to be. A race to finish."

He gave her a wary look, his face suddenly grave and older than his years. For a moment, she felt as if she had caught a glimpse of his future. His future without her.

"I'm the king now, as you never tire of reminding me. I can put guards on you to stop you. I can place a lot of obstacles in your path, if I have to."

"You're bluffing. You wouldn't waste resources like that."

"I'd prefer not to, but I'll do it, if you force my hand," he said. "All I want from you is a promise."

"Alistair, that's unfair."

"I don't care. This is the one time when I'm giving the orders. Promise me."

"Very well," she lied. "I promise."

_Promise to do what I must_, she thought, _even if it means deceiving you every step of the way. Even if it means you hate me after. Because if I have to watch you die, I'll hate myself._

"I'm not sure I should believe you," he said.

"You don't have any choice, do you?"

He frowned. "That's not reassuring."

"Just believe that I love you."

"I do."

His arms encircled her, clasping her to the warmth of his chest, a sudden reminder of the conquering strength with which he wielded sword and shield.

"Know it and don't forget it," she said. "No matter what happens tomorrow."

Outside, she could hear people padding across the plains grass, voices dulled by the darkness into a sorrowful murmur.

"They're counting on us," she whispered.

He stroked her throat with his calloused hand, brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen across her face. "I know."

That night, her restless sleep bristling with unbidden thoughts, she curled into the nook between the curve of his neck and the bend of his thighs, pressing into the warmth of his stomach, feeling his chest sink and expand with each breath. That night she dreamed his body was a fortress.


	4. Race to the Finish

**_Denerim Gates_**

Smoke seared her nostrils, made her vision clouded and grimy. Ash floated down from the ruined buildings like dirty snow.

They fought inside the gates, a reign of fire and panic on the battlefield as the darkspawn swarmed around them. Kassandra darted around a hurlock, dodging the swing of its axe. Spotting a chink in its rusted armour, she stabbed the monster, twisting her dagger deep into its grey flesh.

The hurlock bellowed, raising its axe in the air, and she aimed a blow at the back of its neck, suddenly exposed. Dark blood wetting the dust, trickling between uneven cobblestones.

Too much noise for her ears to contain - the clash of blades against armour, maces crunching into metal helmets, soldiers panting out curses, shouted orders lost in the clamour, the wounded hollering for help that might never come. Flames danced around her, scorching the tips of her boots and warming her cheeks. Sweat beaded down Kassandra's forehead - under her leather helm, her hair was drenched.

She glanced behind her and saw Bann Teagan's forces. Alistair was caught amongst them, his templar armour flashing as he pummelled a genlock with his shield. He would join her soon, if she stalled any longer. She crossed her sword and her dagger high above her head: the signal.

Zevran was already close at hand and, true to his word, Sten rallied to her side. "Let us go, Kaddan. The tide of battle has turned."

"Where's Wynne? We'll need her magic."

"I'm right here." Wynne limped towards them, leaning on her mage's staff for support. "We should depart quickly now, if you wish to enact this plan of yours"

"You're hurt. Can you fight?"

"I appreciate your concern, but I can heal myself along the way. I'll manage. But we must hurry."

They rushed towards the marketplace, a few soldiers calling to them as they passed. Kassandra hurried by, giving them only a nod of recognition. She didn't have any inspirational speeches stored up for them. The best advice she could have offered was to stay away from orcs - or pretty much anything else that can crush a man's head like grape. Hopefully the men could figure that one out on their own.

Her strike team skirted the battle, although they were quick to kill any foolhardy darkspawn that obstructed their path. Ahead of them, the gate to the marketplace stood open, reclaimed by Redcliffe soldiers. Kassandra dashed forward, her eyes upon the burning stalls, the broken merchandise littering the square. She wouldn't falter now and allow herself a glance back to the field where Alistair fought, a last imagined goodbye. Even if she indulged the urge, she knew he would be indistinguishable from the mass of armoured bodies waging battle in the distance.

"With any luck, we'll meet Riordan at the top of Fort Drakon," she told her team. "It all ends there."

When they reached the Alienage, they found Shianni standing in the ruined street, consulting with a team of archers. Soris and a few of Kassandra's former schoolmates were amongst them, untested in combat but struggling to be brave, with their family's ancient bows strapped to their backs.

Kassandra ran forward, catching Shianni in her arms and hugging her senseless. "You're safe!"

"Thank the Maker, you're here!" Shianni said. "They're attacking the Alienage. We've barred the gates, but they won't last much longer."

Kassandra turned to Soris. "I'm glad you're still in one piece, cousin."

Soren gave her a strained smile. "Didn't think I'd make it, did you? Valora – she wasn't so lucky."

"I'm sorry." Kassandra placed a hand on his shoulder. Underneath the leather gauntlets, she could feel his wiry body shuddering with adrenalin. "I was in Redcliffe. I wish I could have been here to help you."

"I know," he said. "I just wish that – things had been different. But we'll fight now. We'll avenge her."

She scanned the crowd for more familiar faces. "Where's Father? Is he alright?"

"He's in the house, watching the children," Shianni said. "If we fail, the elders will put up a last defence."

"You don't have to fight here, Shianni. Go home. We have a force behind us -"

Shianni cut her off, raising her voice to hide its quaver. "No way, Kass. These are our homes, too. We may not be Grey Wardens, but we're going to stand and fight with you."

Kassandra laughed, giving Shianni's hand a tight squeeze. "You're too damn brave. And stubborn! We're going to boot those darkspawn bastards back to the Black City, where they came from!"

They assembled at the barricades, the archers lining up beside Wynne on one of the nearby platforms. From her position on the ground, Kassandra watched the wood of the barricade splintering as the darkspawn rammed against it. She readied her blades.

Lightning sizzled over the barricade as Wynne cast her first spell against the darkspawn massing below. Arrows arced through the air, a deadly rain upon their enemies.

The barricade shattered and an orc stomped towards the ground troops. The battle for the Alienage had begun.

Kassandra defended the platforms with her sword and her dagger, revelling in the confusion Wynne's spells wrought amongst the darkspawn rank-and-file. She was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been to lose, and yet each time an enemy fell, her heart swelled with a strange sense of pride. She was proud to fight beside her family and her friends for this place, their home. They had struggled together against the indignities of the slum and they fought now with the same steely resolve, venting their rage upon the darkspawn. Several archers fell, but the line replenished itself, the fighters turning to daggers and swords when the enemy closed in.

When the last of the darkspawn died, a great cheer erupted from the platforms. Soris rushed at Kassandra, whirling her around in the kind of crazed jig that usually meant he was drunk. Her face pressed against her cousin's shoulder, she could only imagine the expression on Sten's face as he was mauled by a group of rejoicing elves, the tallest of whom barely made it up to his chest.

"We did it!" Shianni exclaimed. "I can't believe we did it! Thank you, cousin! We couldn't have done it without you."

"No. Thank you," Kassandra replied. "It was a team effort and we needed all the help we could get."

In the distance, she heard bugles sounding – the soldiers of Redcliffe were on their way. It wouldn't be long before Alistair was on her heels.

"Shianni, we have to go, but I need you to do me a favour."

Shianni laughed. "After this, I think you've earned it! What do you need?"

"Do you remember what Alistair looks like?"

"Of course, I remember. You were all sweet on each other," Shianni said. "Besides, it's kind of hard to forget when you bring the future king over to my place for dinner."

"Good, because I think he's on his way here now. I need you to stall him."

"Why? And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

"No time to explain. Improvise. Oh, and if he asks where I went, point him in the wrong direction. Got it?"

"Uh-huh. If you say so, cousin."

Kassandra glanced at the door to her father's house, wondering if he would open the door, if he would call to her. It would be good to see him, but there was little time for tears and blessings and long goodbyes. The door didn't budge and perhaps that was for the best.

"I have to run now," she said. "Tell my father I love him. You take care of yourself, alright?"

"Always do, Kass. I know you're a Grey Warden and everything, but be safe!"

She caught up with Wynne and Sten near the remains of the broken barricade. "Where's Zevran?"

"Right here," Zevran answered, sneaking up behind her. "What can I say? I enjoy playing hero."

"We shouldn't keep the archdemon waiting," Sten said. "Onward, then."

They hurried across a narrow bridge towards the centre of the city, the place where the winding backstreets of the Old Town brushed up against the lavish Palace District. Under the bridge flowed the River Drakon, its oily water illumined by sparks from the burning rooftops.

Kassandra listened for noise from the Alienage, the sounds of the Redcliffe infantry marching in, but they seemed to be progressing more slowly than she'd anticipated. Hopefully Alistair and the rest of her companions were still amongst them. That would buy her some time.

Zevran sidled up to her, a sly expression on his face. "My dear woman, if we get out this alive, I was wondering if you might do me a favour."

"Zev, I don't think I'm getting out of this alive."

"Your optimism is inspiring. Now let's just suppose that you do..."

"Alright, then I'd owe you one," she said. "What kind of treasure were you thinking of?"

"Your charming cousin, actually. Could you arrange an introduction?"

She laughed. "Which one of my charming cousins? With you, it's hard to know."

"Yes, yes, very funny," Zevran replied. "If you knew anything about my tastes, you'd be aware that Soris is not my type of man. However, Shianni is a most intriguing woman."

"And may I ask what your intentions are with her?"

"Why, simply to get to know her - at first. I would proceed with care. Surely you do not think that -"

"That you're a scoundrel and a rake?" Kassandra interjected. "Yes, maybe a little. But I don't think you're cruel."

Zevran bared his teeth in a mocking smile. "So you fear I will be a shameless cad and damage her heart forever? I doubt she is so frail."

"No, she's one of the toughest people I know. But she's been through a lot. So long as you're kind to her and you treat her well, then you have my blessing."

"Ah, see? Nothing to worry about."

"But Zev, I can promise you this: if you earn her trust and then you break it, I will break you. Even if I have to come back from the Fade to do it."

Zevran smirked at her, raking a gloved hand through his pale blonde hair. "So protective you are! Like a lady dragon! It is understood. Should I pursue your lovely cousin, I will be on my best behaviour, all courtesy and grace. Although we should probably kill the archdemon before we start planning the wedding, hmm?"

Kassandra laughed. "Ah, yes. Priorities. Let's concentrate on not dying, shall we?"

She wasn't laughing long.

Over the spires of the palace towers flew a gargantuan beast, its body a winding mass of spikes and ridges. The archdemon roared and turned a wide circle in the air, then swerved through a cloud of smoke.

It was then that Kassandra saw the figure of a man racing along its back, a sight so unexpected that for a heartbeat she thought she was hallucinating. She blinked twice, but the man was still there, now creeping towards the beast's neck.

Riordan.

Only he could manage such a feat, although she couldn't fathom the desperation that must have driven him to it. Why? Why hadn't he waited?

The archdemon flapped its terrible wings and bucked its back, its tail whipping through the air. Kassandra lost sight of Riordan, but watched the sky feverishly, praying to any god who'd listen that his sword would drive home.

The dragon roared again, its legs flailing madly.

Her heart dangled on a string. For a moment, she believed in a miracle.

And then the body dropped from the sky, just a speck, a mote of dust against the black clouds – her last hope. No one would have marked it unless they were watching, unless they knew.

"Why?" she whispered.

"That was the archdemon, wasn't it?" Zevran said. "Well, um, yes...it's probably best to hold off on the engagement."

_**Fort Drakon**_

Carnage. Darkspawn corpses scattered everywhere.

"Oh my," Wynne said. "This is quite a mess."

And somehow, in the middle of Fort Drakon, there was Sandal, his face spattered with blood.

Kassandra gaped at the boy. "Sandal?"

Sandal's wide eyes stared right past her. "Enchantment?"

"Sandal, what happened here?"

"Enchantment!"

"Ah, that explains everything," Sten muttered.

"Poor boy," Wynne said. "He isn't safe alone here. We should take him some place more secure."

Zevran raised an eyebrow at her. "A kind thought, yes, but I'd say he is more than safe. The 'poor boy' just slaughtered two dozen darkspawn. Perhaps we should take him along for our own protection."

"We don't know how this happened," Wynne replied. "What we do know is that he's innocent and that he's alone. We can't simply leave him here."

The mage reached out to touch Sandal, but thankfully, Kassandra caught her hand in time.

"Don't touch him, Wynne. He doesn't like it. If anyone gets too close, he gets upset."

"I see," Wynne said. "Will he understand if we ask him to follow us? I wonder if we might lead him to the guards' quarters. He'd be safer there."

"Yes, he hears us. Bodahn told me that he understands in his own way."

"Is this necessary?" Sten asked. "Surely, the dwarf can -"

"It's necessary!" Wynne snapped. "Don't test me, Qunari."

Sten snorted. "Very well. I suppose ending the Blight can wait while you stand here and fuss, old woman."

"Sandal, come with us now," Kassandra said. "Follow me."

She walked through the door to the right and into the nearby guards' quarters. Sandal hesitated for a moment and then followed her path.

"You see the bunk there?" She pointed at one of the beds. "I want you to sit down there."

Sandal sat on the bed, his feet barely grazing the floor. He stared down at his hands.

"Stay here now," Wynne said. "Be safe, dear. We'll return for you when we can."

Kassandra eyed the bulky backpack strapped over Sandal's shoulders. "I think he has some of his father's supplies. We could use them."

"Yes, I suppose, that's true," Wynne replied. "But I do hope you plan to repay him."

"Enchantment," Sandal said, perking up a bit.

"Well, the money won't do him or Bodahn any good if the archdemon kills everyone," Kassandra said. "Let's worry about restitution a little later, shall we?"

Wynne sighed. "You make a salient point. Just do be gentle with the child."

"Sandal, can I see Bodahn's wares?"

The dwarven boy nodded. Unloading the bag from his shoulders, he let it slip to the floor.

Kassandra rummaged through the knapsack, removing the best of the health poultices and lyrium potions.

"This is good," she said. "Sandal, I'm going to take these items. Just to borrow, okay?"

"Okay," Sandal said.

"Stay here. Be safe now, alright?"

Sandal looked down at his hands again. "Alright."

"I don't like this," Wynne whispered, as they walked out of the guards' quarters. "What if we die up there? What if no one comes for him?"

"Sometimes bad things happen," Kassandra said. "Let's just do our best to prevent the worst."

Wynne frowned. "Yes. That's sensible. I'm – I'm not being reasonable, am I?"

"You're trying to be kind. But we've done what we can."

Sten and Zevran were awaiting them at the far corner of the main room. While Zev maintained his usual unflappable demeanour, leaning against the wall in an attitude of rather affected repose, the Qunari wore an indignant scowl, his arms folded across his broad chest.

"Finished?"

"Yes," Wynne answered. "Let's go now."

"Good," Sten said. "Onward."

They walked up the stairway to the last floor of Fort Drakon, drawing closer and closer to the trap they'd laid for the archdemon, the place where the bulk of their army would gather.

The nearer they drew, the more potent the archdemon's pull became, the poisoned blood surging through Kassandra's veins like creeping madness. The air became thick and soupy. The walls jutted forward at unnerving angles, stone teeth gnashed together. She stumbled slightly, bumping against Zevran with her shoulder.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were drunk. Or poisoned," Zevran said. "Are you alright?"

"Poisoned, yes," Kassandra said. "Darkspawn blood. Part of the fun of being a Grey Warden."

Her vision clouded over and she had to grip the wall to keep her balance. The archdemon's voice sliced into her mind, its music in her blood.

She heard Wynne's voice. "Your eyes turned almost white. I've never seen such a thing before. Would you like to sit down?"

She blinked twice and her vision cleared. "No. We rest and Alistair gains ground. I'm not going to let him kill it."

Wynne shook her head. "I know you're hoping to protect him, but I don't understand this excessive competitiveness. Why should it matter who kills the creature, so long as it dies?"

"And what matters besides honour?" Sten said. "It is a worthy goal."

Kassandra kept moving along the corridor. "I know what I'm doing. I kill the thing. That's the plan. We stick to it."

**_Fort Drakon - Rooftop_**

The archdemon craned its neck back and roared, raging as another wave of arrows pierced its flesh.

Kassandra, Sten and Zevran dodged the monster's clawed feet and the vicious spikes of its tail, striking out at its scaled body with their blades. Hurlocks, genlocks and shrieks ran rampant around them, nasty distractions summoned by the cries of their tainted god.

Kassandra could feel the archdemon's power waning, its body weakening, as she slashed at one of its hind legs. Another round of arrows, a few more blades in its side and it would fall. She would dispense the final blow. Soon it would be done.

The dragon breathed a whirling vortex of blue flames. She darted away with just enough alacrity to avoid the worst of the attack. Wynne's healing spell refreshed her weary body and made it easier to dodge.

"Kass!"

Alistair's voice. She couldn't afford to turn back, not with the archdemon before her, but she didn't have to see him to know he was advancing, plowing his way past the darkspawn standing between his sword and archdemon.

The dragon screamed and writhed in anguish, lashing its tail.

Kassandra fell back a few steps, circling, circling, watching for her chance. Not much longer now.

"You move fast, my dear. It took me some real effort to catch up."

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Alistair contending with a pair of shrieks.

"You shouldn't be here. I told you I would kill it."

"As you said, it's a race to the finish," he said. "All's fair in love and war."

"Alistair, please don't do this."

"I want to do this."

Arrows, hundreds of arrows quivering through the air and then driving their barbs into the archdemon's body. The dragon raised a claw as if to strike but faltered, its legs suddenly too weak to support its monstrous bulk.

She glanced over at Alistair. He looked back at her, the trace of a smile on his lips.

They both ran for the archdemon.

_**Battle of Denerim**_

Bann Teagan was fighting in the Palace District when he saw the column of white light rise from the rooftop of Fort Drakon. For a second, he thought it was strange lightning and then his mind went blank with wonder as the light became blinding, rumbling across the sky, devouring the clouds, a celestial beauty, an untold terror. It ripped the night in twain.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

Just ahead, he could hear bugles sounding. He swung his sword at an approaching genlock, knocking it backwards. The battle was nearly won, but like all victories, it came at a cost.


	5. Requiem

Alistair opened his eyes. His cheek was mashed against the cold stone of the rooftop, a gush of warm blood trickling down his forehead. Sten's arms were still locked around his shoulders, pressing him down.

"Maker! I will murder you, Qunari! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I did as Kaddan commanded. Perhaps you should have done the same."

"You killed her!"

"It was as she willed."

"I'll kill you. If you think you had it bad in that cage in Lothering, you have no idea..."

Zevran's boots wandered by, so close he could make out the markings in the Dalish leather. "Just a word to the wise, Sten: before you let him up, you may wish to confiscate his sword."

Alistair firmed up his grip on the hilt of his blade. "Yes, you'd better confiscate my sword or you're the first one on it, Crow! This is treason."

"As I recall, I'm an Antivan subject," Zevran said. "And I don't think Sten plans to swear the oath of allegiance any time soon."

"All of you stop this now!" Wynne's voice cut between them. "This is entirely beneath you."

She stooped down and placed her hand around Alistair's fist, prying his fingers back from the hilt of the sword. He didn't resist, just lay there on the cold stone of the rooftop.

"She went to her death," he murmured. "And you helped her do it."

"If you mean that we helped her save Ferelden and your life - at great personal risk to ourselves, I might add – then yes. We did help her," Wynne replied.

She picked up his sword and held it balanced between her slender hands. "Let him go now, Sten. No more of this now."

Sten withdrew, shifting his boulder weight from Alistair's back.

Armour clanking, Alistair clambered to his feet. Less than a minute ago, he'd envisioned himself a hero who'd sacrifice his life for love and duty. Now he just felt ridiculous, a wretched man in a metal suit playing at being king.

"Where is she?"

Wynne shook her head, deep furrows appearing in the delicate skin of her forehead. "Don't look at her yet, dear. Just stay here for a moment. You don't have to do anything right now. You're overwhelmed and you're angry. You aren't thinking clearly."

"Overwhelmed, am I? Angry? That doesn't even come close to describing..." He gave an involuntary shudder and reached up to stem the trickle of blood from his scalp. "Maker's breath! What would you have me do? Am I supposed to just accept – this?"

"No, no," Wynne said. "Just accept that, right now, you need some time to process what has happened. Take some time. When you're ready, you'll see her."

"Is she – is she okay? What does she look like?"

"She looks peaceful."

He pressed his hand over his mouth, choking on his words. "I want - I want be alone."

"You can't do that right now, dear," Wynne murmured. "The people, they're going to want to see you. You have to be strong for them."

Alistair closed his eyes, his pulse beating at his throat and rage kicking at his ribs. "Alright. Yes. I can do that."

In the end, he was the one who washed her body, sponging the blood from her wounds, washing the dust from her face. He insisted upon this duty, a final excruciating act of love.

She looked peaceful, as Wynne had told him. It was his face that contorted with anguish, with sorrow. Under her armour, he'd found dried rose petals crushed against her chest, purple-black as bruises against her pale skin.

He took careful inventory of her scars, knowing their stories, how she had earned them. There were new wounds too, fresh cuts streaking her arms and shoulders, a shallow gash that curved along her hipbone.

When he lifted her right hand – such a tiny thing curled in the broad expanse of his palm - he saw that her ring finger was broken. He bent forward to place a kiss there, her skin cool against his parched lips.

After her body was clean, he dressed her, first in her favourite clothes – a simple home-spun skirt and a green blouse – and then in her boots, her gloves, the soft leather of her armour.

Once she was clothed, he sent for Leliana. She knocked at the door so gently that at first he didn't hear her.

"Alistair? I'm here. May I come in?"

He opened the door. "Come in."

Leliana's eyelids were puffy and red-rimmed, her cheeks rubbed raw. If she looked rough, Alistair could only imagine how ghastly he must appear.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"I need you to do her hair. The way she liked it. You can do that, can't you?"

"Yes, of course. I know how to do that."

"Good," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Thank you."

He turned away from Leliana and from the small body laid out on the table. "I must go now. I have to make preparations. For the parade."

A parade. The crowds hadn't even waited for the funeral processions to pass before they started celebrating.

"Alistair?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I'm going to miss her too."

He nodded, his face still turned toward the door. "Yes. Of course."

"I know it's not the same, but -"

"Thank you for taking care of her," he said. "I don't know how to do a woman's hair and I want her to look nice for when her family sees her."

Alistair went back to his chambers and put on the ornate robes the chamberlain had prepared for him. He took little pleasure in the medallions or the heavy gold chain around his neck, the stuffy costume he was supposed to wear for state occasions as a show of power. He'd just sat down at his desk and taken his first draught of ale when Arl Eamon knocked at the door.

"The parade will begin shortly. Are you ready?"

"Yes, I am," he said.

When he got up from his chair, his joints ached. He felt as if every hour in the day had aged him a year.

He sat in his throne on the balcony of the palace, the crown heavy upon his skull. He watched the parade go by, the soldiers marching in their proud ranks, the decorated officers saluting him.

A band played, the music swelled to a glorious crescendo and the crowd cheered, although the streets of Denerim still lay in ruin. He looked down at them and raised his hand in greeting.

"Tell me, Eamon: does my face betray me?"

Eamon shook his head. "No, Sire. No, it does not."

"Very good. It is time I learned that skill."

They held a state funeral for her the next day in the palace gardens. The morning was beautiful and mild, sunlight streaking through the trees. Somewhere in the orchard, a lark trilled out its song.

She lay on a marble plinth, lovely but unfamiliar in his eyes, strange in her stillness. In life, she'd never been that serene, that quiet, not even when she slept.

Alistair had prepared his speech carefully, memorizing each word, each gesture, the length of each pause, so that he would not falter. He hadn't planned to look at her when he spoke, but when she was there, laid out before him, it was almost impossible to prise his eyes away.

He thought it would difficult to gaze upon her, but it was harder to look at the assembled crowd. Her father and her cousins were there, dressed in the fine clothes he'd sent them. Their former travelling companions were in attendance, too, a knot of familiar faces amidst an audience of nobles and state dignitaries. He didn't know the representative who'd come from the Grey Wardens, a solemn Orlesian man, but he was grateful for his presence. It would be important to speak with him later about her memorial and about what might be done to honour Duncan, Riordan and all the Wardens lost at Ostagar.

He saved his favourite part of the speech until the very end, the part that he knew would create a stir amongst most conservative nobles. He would grant the Alienage autonomy within Denerim and create Kassandra's father as Bann to safeguard its territory. Kass had thought highly of her cousin Shianni and so he chose her as the Alienage's representative at court.

He enjoyed the moment, but it was a bitter pleasure, like rot-gut liquor. He could afford to be reckless in the name of a fallen hero. No one could contest the change, not after the Hero of Ferelden had given her life to rid them of the Blight.

Cyrion received his new honours graciously, but he looked tired and older than his years. His dingy brown hair was already starting to show strands of grey and his thin frame appeared wizened, more stooped than before.

Shianni also accepted her new role with dignity, offering him a graceful bow as she pledged her service to the Crown. It wasn't until after the speeches were done that she started sobbing and the newly appointed Bann Tabris had to escort her outside.

It was a relief to have them gone. He saw too much of Kass in them. He had trouble meeting their eyes, knowing he had failed.

Alistair felt a strange distance from most of their former party, but perhaps it was only natural. On the road, they'd been an imaginary family, albeit a dysfunctional one who looked nothing alike and loved to squabble. Without the threat of the Blight, there was little left to bind them together. Even their grief for Kass felt separate and, like death itself, could not be shared.

Things were most difficult with the Mabari. After a few days without his master, Cairn started to pine, refusing meat and sleeping all day on Kass' old bedroll. Whenever he could escape his duties, Alistair went to the kennel and sat with the hound, petting its head and watching its doleful brown eyes.

He'd plead with the dog, offering it an oxbone or a bowl of kitchen scraps, engaging in the kind of elaborate negotiations a right-minded monarch would reserve only for diplomatic alliances and trade treaties. The dog wouldn't eat.

He consulted with the kennel master, with a prominent Ash Warrior, even with a pair of itinerant mages who claimed to possess special skill in working with animals. Nothing worked.

"Once a Mabari is imprinted, its life is bound to its owner," the kennel master told him. "You have a choice here, Your Majesty: you can let the beast starve or I can put it down."

"That isn't much of a choice."

"I'm sorry, Sire. I wish it could be otherwise."

"Very well. Please put him out of his suffering in a way that befits his noble spirit," Alistair said. "When it is finished, I wish for you to bury the hound on the site set aside for the Hero of Ferelden's memorial statue. Do you have any questions in this matter?"

The kennel master bowed his head. "No, my liege."

"Then ensure it is done quickly and out of my sight."

When Leliana asked him where the dog was, he lied and told her it had been sent to Kass' uncle in Highever.

Alistair felt more comfortable with Wynne and Leliana than with the others, perhaps because they had more in common, but even their friendships had changed irrevocably. He couldn't talk to them, not in the way they wanted. They kept watching him, as if they expected him to break down and confess all his secret sorrows. But he wasn't strong enough to be that weak – he knew a single crack in the facade might be enough to break him and he didn't have the luxury of starving himself like a Mabari hound. Wynne took on an advisory role at court and stayed in Denerim for while. He offered Leliana a position as a court performer, but she declined, choosing to assist Brother Genitivi in his next expedition to the Urn of Sacred Ashes instead.

At their leave-taking, Leliana looked lost and despondent, cradling her pet nug in her arms. "I wish this could have been different. We had earned ourselves a happy ending, I think."

He suppressed the urge to tell her that they weren't living in a fairytale or some Orlesian ballad. She didn't deserve that.

"Why don't you write a song?" he said. "You can give it a happy ending for all of us."

Leilana dabbed at the corners her eyes with a yellow handkerchief, offering him a tearful smile. "I could, yes. But then I'd want it to be true."


	6. Aftershock

In the ninth year of his reign, Alistair visited the Orlesian court in Val Royeaux to sign a trade treaty and negotiate military cooperation against darkspawn incursions along the shared border. He had never been to Orlais and wasn't sure whether he felt excitement or dread at the prospect.

Nevertheless, it was a relief to travel again after a stultifying month at court and the awkwardness that went along with a political wedding. Five days before embarking on his journey, he'd married Princess Simonetta Adalai Rienza of Antiva, a young woman he'd known only from a somewhat flattering portrait and the glowing reports of her four brothers.

From their few interactions, he knew that Simonetta was a devout follower of the Chantry, enjoyed art and played the clavichord with some skill. She seemed pleasant enough amongst company, neither ill-tempered nor prone to the alternating bouts of melancholy and mania her father's line had made notorious.

It was hard to glean much more that, since his new wife was uncomfortable speaking the common tongue and his present knowledge of Antivan didn't extend beyond diplomatic pleasantries and Zevran Arainai's favourite curse words. At the breakfast on the morning after their nuptials, their first conversation as man and wife centered upon Ferelden's climate and polite requests to pass the salt.

His arrival in Val Royeaux coincided with a midsummer festival and the capital was dressed to its best advantage, decked in bright streamers and banners representing the mighty houses of the nobility. Even on an average day, it was obviously an impressive place, a city of delicate white towers and marvellous bridges that seemed to be suspended over the waters, made of little more than dreams and air. The centerpiece of the capital was a tall spire draped with coloured silks that formed the impression of an airy dome shielding the Grand Cathedral and the main square.

Orlais and the court were, indeed, lovely, but he disliked the manicured lawns, the fancy food and the ever-changing parade of court costumes. At best, it was all a bit contrived and excessive; at worst, it was utterly ridiculous. He had trouble not chuckling during a ceremonial procession when one of Empress Celene's ladies got stuck in a doorway, thanks to an expansive and very-fashionable hat built in the shape of a frigate.

The Orlesians were gracious hosts, observing all the finer points of courtesy, but they secretly seemed to regard Fereldans as rough-shod battle-mad barbarians who could not possibly be expected to understand the intricacies of a superior culture. They were shocked, for example, that Alistair would prefer to pluck pears right from the tree, rather than sending them to a chef to be sliced, sugared and soaked in brandy until they ceased to taste like fruit at all. Amidst all this frippery and silliness, he found Empress Celene to be a formidable personage, a sharp-eyed woman of middle years with a melting smile and a spine of steel.

He had been at court for several days when he took a wrong turn at the guest quarters and came upon the enchanters' library. During his templar training, Alistair had heard stories about the Orlesians' vast collections of magical lore, arcane books and scrolls pillaged from the Tevinter Imperium. He'd been planning to go speak with the ambassador in the central court, but having stumbled upon this trove, it was hard to resist the desire to poke around the shelves a bit and see what he might discover.

He was paging through a text on runestones when he heard the voice, its smug sing-song cadence unmistakeable.

"You know, 'twas most vexing to find the book. You may imagine how displeased I was to discover that it contains nothing but footnotes! 722 pages and none of it relevant in the least!"

Closing his book, he peered around the edge of the aisle and saw a dark-haired woman speaking with one of the archivists. Wearing purple mage's robes and a tangle of gold jewellery, she was thin to the point of gauntness, irritation crabbing her bony hands into claws. When her narrow yellow eyes turned to him, he was reminded of the way a snake looks before it sticks its fangs in something. Dismissing the archivist with a wave of her hand, she turned on her heel and tried to make her escape.

"Morrigan? What precisely are you doing here?"

"I am sure that I don't know who or what you are talking about," the woman said. "Doubtless, you are confused. Go stand somewhere else and perhaps it shall pass."

"The only thing that confuses me, Morrigan, is how an apostate managed to get a position here at Court, so conveniently close to the Grand Cathedral," he retorted. "But maybe I should simply go and ask the Revered Mother or one of the templars there..."

Morrigan gave him a defiant glare, the black pupils of her snake eyes dilating. "Perhaps you should watch your tongue. Should one meet an apostate, it would not be very wise to anger her, particularly when one isn't carrying a sword. She might transform into any sort of horrible abomination."

"I'm King of Ferelden now. Perhaps you should watch your tongue. I don't take kindly to threats, however nicely you veil them, Morrigan."

"Oh, I make no threats – only promises. And if you must insist on talking at me, call me by my proper name."

"And what name would that be? Rumplestiltskin? Flemeth, the Sequel?"

"Such wit. You should put on motley and become your own court jester," Morrigan sneered. "They know me here as Regan. The name is good enough for them and 'tis more than good enough for you."

"Aha. So... care to tell me why you deserted Ferelden in its hour of greatest need and ran off to live in the court of Orlais, of all places? I'm very interested to know."

Morrigan smiled, which was a distinctly bad sign. "Oh, Kassandra didn't tell you, did she? Yes, I suppose it would have been rather awkward to explain. And knowing the truth – I imagine it could drive a man mad."

"You don't have the right to say her name. You abandoned your only friend when she needed you, when she trusted you. You just left her to die. Give me one good reason not to call down the templars on you."

"You're quite the self-righteous fool, aren't you? I didn't abandon her. Indeed, I was willing to put myself through a great deal of unpleasantness to save her life," Morrigan said. "How unfortunate, then, that she was so ungrateful as to refuse the gift I offered her."

"You don't give gifts, Morrigan. Not without a price attached."

"Oh, there was a price, but it was a meagre concession, a pittance, really," the mage replied. "I offered Kassandra a wonderful opportunity. I could have performed a ritual and ensured that no Grey Wardens had to die."

He shook his head as if he could shake himself free of the thought. "No. That isn't true. That's impossible."

"Oh, no, it was a very real possibility. How sad then and how foolish that she would insist on a sacrifice. Why, if she had only gone along with my plan, the two of you might be together now."

"I don't believe you," he snarled. "If there was a way to avoid the sacrifice, the Grey Wardens would have known it."

"There are things on this earth that your precious Grey Wardens have never dreamt of. And many of these things happen to be recorded in Flemeth's grimoire."

"So tell me then: how? How would you do this? Use some bats' wings, some eye-of-newt?"

"I'll just pretend that you're a serious person and capable of understanding," Morrigan said. "Now, when the archdemon dies, its soul goes into the body of the Grey Warden who killed it, yes? And death ensues. Most unfortunate."

"I'm aware of this."

"But, if, in dead of night, a ritual had been performed with me to conceive a child with the darkspawn taint, the archdemon's essence, the soul of the Old God, would have bypassed the Grey Warden and travelled into the body of the child. The child could have absorbed the taint and survived. Do you follow?"

"So, basically, blood magic."

Morrigan scoffed at him. "That is a gross simplification. The child would live. No blood spilled at all."

"You do realize that even if Kass had gone crazy and agreed to that, two women conceiving a child together would be, well, somewhat out of the question? Or did Flemeth skip that part of your education?"

"So now the reformed Chantry virgin will presume to mock my prowess?" The witch gave a derisive snort and then fixed him with her gold-gleaming eyes. "Of course I couldn't conceive the child with her. Trust me, it would have been far easier on me if that were the case."

"So what were you going to do? Ask the good Fade spirits to take a baby out of the Fade and leave it in your arms?"

"If only! Unfortunately, since I obviously couldn't have conceived a child with Kassandra, I had to ask to borrow her pet idiot."

"What!?" His outburst attracted the notice of a few library patrons, who cast sidelong glances at them.

"I told you I was willing to go through some...unpleasantness," Morrigan hissed. "But it would have saved both your lives. It would have saved your love. Surely you would have been willing to go through any manner of unpleasantness to do that."

He hesitated for a moment and seeing him vacillate, Morrigan seemed ready to push her luck.

"In a sense, I am the hero of this tale. I would have saved you both," she said. "And I merely wanted the child. Hardly any price at all."

"So, let me get this plan of yours straight... I was supposed to forsake my love, to go against my self-respect and every personal inclination, by sleeping with you and making you pregnant."

"That is so. I assure you, the mechanics of it wouldn't have pleased me either."

"And after that," he continued, "I was to let my child be possessed with the soul of the archdemon?"

"With the untainted soul of an Old God," she corrected. "Quite different."

"Oh, very different, I'm sure," he said. "And then, of all things, I was to allow you, the worst of all possible mothers, to abscond with this hypothetical demonic bastard child with a claim to the throne of Ferelden?"

"Indeed. It was the best solution for everyone," Morrigan said. "I asked Kassandra to persuade you. If she had asked it, if she had told you that it meant her life, you would have done it."

He didn't answer her. He wanted to be able to spit a refusal back in her face, but he knew she would see through the lie. Her ritual sickened him, but the more he thought about it, the more it shared ugly similarities with some of the things he was compelled to do as king. Instead of marrying the woman he loved, he'd been forced to wed another, to lie with one who meant nothing to him, to create a viable heir who would prevent Ferelden from breaking into civil war upon his death. He'd already compromised his noblest ideals for duty. If Kass had asked it, it would have been even easier, more tempting, to surrender himself for love.

Morrigan gave a snide laugh, savouring her triumph. "Am I wrong? Have I presumed too much?"

"I don't know," he said. "She never asked me."

"You would have done it," she asserted. "So, you see, she chose to die. She willed it. I did not abandon her. She abandoned herself."

He gave Morrigan a stony stare, his hands clenched together before him. He was tempted, very tempted, to reach up and wring her scrawny neck.

Instead, he took a deep breath and turned away from the witch, knowing that, more than anything, she hated to be ignored. "I'll be sending a message to the templars at the High Cathedral tomorrow morning. I suggest that this evening you take the first boat out of Val Royaux and never come back. Have I made myself clear?"

"That's an odd way to repay someone for trying to save your life."

"I guess I'm an ingrate then, just like Kass. You aren't in the Korcari Wilds anymore. You stay here and I'll see you burn."

"Have it your way then," Morrigan snapped. "I was beginning to tire of Orlais anyway."

She stalked off down the aisle, her gold bracelets jangling together.

He didn't visit the Ambassador that afternoon nor did he attend dinner in court, excusing himself with the claim that he was feeling unwell. The Orlesians would wonder if he'd fallen victim to a bard's poisons, but that didn't bother him. Indeed, it seemed to strike close to the truth. The venom of Morrigan's words had seeped into his skin, corroding flesh, making him feel as if his brain were boiling in the cauldron of his skull.

Instead of putting in an appearance at court, as he ought, he hunched over a desk, swigging back fine Orlesian wine as if were dwarven moonshine. Once he'd made it through the first bottle, he started to scrawl out a letter to Arl Eamon on a piece of blank vellum.

It commenced with a long and rambling apology and then proceeded to offer a series of justifications for his decision: to boot, that he was not trained for kingship, that he had never wanted or expected it, that being a Grey Warden, he should not have inherited a throne and, lastly, that he was a bastard and everyone knew that bastards never came to any good.

"In short," he wrote, "I, Alistair Aloysius Theirin, am unfit to rule and will abdicate the throne, renouncing all claims to land, name or title to live in quiet exile as a Grey Warden."

He further stipulated that his wife's dowry should be returned along with additional compensation from his own estate, asked Arl Eamon's forgiveness once again, and then slashed his signature down at the bottom of the page.

When he finally stumbled to his bed and lay down to sleep, he tossed and turned under the sheets.

_In his dreams, he stood looking at the massive hearth in Kass' guestroom at Redcliffe. Suddenly, the hearth fire crept up along the stone mantel, feeding even on granite, its flames dancing to the tapestry on the wall and setting the bed curtains ablaze. He ran to put them out but Kass stopped him, locking him in a rough embrace. _

_She kissed him and his mind was feverish with her face, with the smile that she gave him as she turned away, flames catching at the train of her skirt. _

"_A race to finish," she said._

_The room burned around him but he was untouched by fire._

The next morning, Alistair awoke with a crushing headache, still dressed in the previous day's clothes. When he finally wandered over to his desk, he saw the letter he'd laboured over the night before.

He picked up the letter and began it to read it over, now fully aware of how drunk he'd been when he'd set to penning it. The first four sentences offering salutations to Arl Eamon and his family were wobbly, but still legible if one worked at it. The rest of the missive was absolute chicken scratch, the sort of manic scribbling that would have given his former tutors at the Chantry heart palpitations. Even he couldn't read it, although he remembered what he'd been thinking, how he'd wanted nothing more than to head off to the Deep Roads twenty years ahead of schedule.

Alistair sighed, shaking his head, and walked over the hearth at the other end of the room. He placed the letter into the waning fire, hungry for fuel, which sparked up and began to devour it. The vellum crinkled, blackening in the flames, his desperate words dissolving to smoke and ash.

He would not chase death or run from his responsibilities. Kass had refused Morrigan's pact to save the humanity of his child - and perhaps she'd saved a piece of his own humanity as well. She had chosen her sacrifice because she wanted him to live. He would honour her with his life, not with an empty death.

A little over a year later, his first child was born, a healthy baby boy. He held his sleeping son in his arms, amazed at how quickly, how unexpectedly things could change.


	7. In the Garden of Dreams

In the twenty-eighth year of his reign, the nightmares returned, a calling from the deep. He began to relinquish his powers, spending more time at the Palace with his children and less time making public appearances. He passed his last weeks in Denerim carefully preparing his will with his advisors and their clerks and meeting with the Bannorn to ensure their support for his eldest son and heir.

And then, one morning, he was simply gone, his rooms left dark and empty.

He took little with him besides the armour on his back, his sword and an old shield. It was best to travel light, to eat and rest in the poor inns or set up camp in the forest. He'd become accustomed to the comforts that came with kingship and sleeping on a bedroll again was a harsh awakening, especially after a rain, when his damaged knee started to act up.

He met his friend, Elgar Vorneren, a Grey Warden of the Anderfels, in the tavern at Orzammar Commons and they shared a toast over muddy dwarven ale. They'd met at Weisshaupt Fortress many years ago, but he'd never expected that they would be travelling companions in this last journey. They spent the rest of the afternoon in the markets, purchasing a few days' worth of supplies.

The next morning, they ventured down into the Deep Roads, passing through the ruined intersections that had once connected the mighty thaigs. The darkspawn burrowed together in these lightless places, using dwarven crypts as their decrepit palaces.

They fought the darkspawn in the thaigs, in the roads and in winding caverns, slaughtering as many as they could find. Alistair had almost forgotten the thrill of combat, the rush of triumph he felt at putting an evil thing to the sword and knowing that it could not rise to harm an innocent.

On the fourth day, they ran out of rations.

"I'm surprised we made it this long," Elgar said. "I didn't think that we'd have to worry about going without supper."

Alistair laughed. "The darkspawn had better improve their game. I'm going to be a trifle disappointed if we perish from starvation."

On the sixth day, they were ambushed by a large party of darkspawn as they travelled through Thaig Ortan. They managed to kill most of their attackers and drove the rest back into the shadows, but Elgar was injured in the fray, his stomach punctured by a hurlock's sword.

Neither of them were healers and they'd exhausted their supply of health poultices long ago. Elgar asked Alistair to finish what the hurlock had started.

"To go – it will be a relief," Elgar said. "Then I will have rest and quiet dreams, with no nightmares to plague my sleep."

Alistair pressed his hands on either side of his friend's forehead. "Sleep well then, Grey Warden." He wrenched Elgar's head to the side, breaking his neck.

There was no fire in the Deep Roads to construct a pyre. Alistair settled for burying his friend in one of the abandoned tombs, among the sarcophagi of the ancient dwarven nobility and the symbols of their faded glory.

He wandered alone, travelling the familiar road to the Dead Trenches without rest. The nightmares followed him even in wakefulness – he remembered the gaze of the archdemon searing his face, imagined the hands of a hundred darkspawn rending his limbs, tearing ligament from bone.

On the ninth day, he curled up in a rock crevice and slept. He went to a place where the nightmares could not find him.

_It was Lothering, but Lothering as he had never seen it before. It was a Lothering that could have been, but had never existed, not the desolate village circled by a refugee camp that had been raided by darkspawn. _

_The market square bustled with farmers setting out stock and travelling merchants exhorting the quality of their wares. He walked among them, young and vigorous once more, glad to go unrecognized in his simple clothes, his unpolished armour. When they bothered to take note of him, they treated him as a warrior, perhaps an errant knight passing along the Imperial Highway in search of worthy quests, deeds to make his name._

_In the once-Lothering of long ago, the shabby hovels of the townsfolk had been little better than sheds, lodgings that the Fereldan nobility wouldn't have deemed fit for their hounds. In this new Lothering, the Lothering of dreams, the homes were still small, but the thatched roofs were sturdy, the walls made of mortar and stone. Ivy crept up the sides of the houses, verdant green leaves and curling vines grasping for the sun._

_As he walked along, he started to whistle a song under his breath, although he couldn't remember where it was from, whether it was one of Leliana's tunes or a melody from the court minstrels or even a Chantry hymn, the pious lyrics long forgotten. _

_It was a beautiful day and the sky was blue, the kind of blue that made one's heart ache with happiness. In his renewed youth, he could remember what it had been to grow old and he was grateful to move unfettered, feeling the effortless strength of his limbs. Under the sunshine and the clear noon sky, he knew what it was to be buried underground in a world of rock and clay, the burnt umber walls of the dwarven thaigs dark and forbidding even by torchlight. _

_He neared a white-washed footbridge and saw her standing there, leaning her arms against the railing. _

_One by one, Kass plucked pink petals from rose in her hand, letting them drift down into the slow-moving stream. She didn't turn at his approach – indeed, he would have imagined she hadn't noticed him there at all, if it weren't for the faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. _

_Kass stripped the rose of its last petal and held the scrap of pink between thumb and forefinger. "This flower seems to think that you still love me." _

_The petal slipped out from between her fingers and floated down to the stream, causing barely a ripple in the glassy, grey-green water. _

_He moved to her side, stooping over the low bridge railing. "I didn't know you put such trust in the opinions of vegetation. Did you ever consider asking me instead?"_

_She glanced over at him, her slow smile widening. Her eyes lingered on his face for a moment and then looked away, back down to the stream, her hands still toying with the thorny stem of the rose. _

"_No," she said. "It would spoil all the fun of not knowing."_

_He touched her chin, gently turning her face back towards him. His hands slid back around her neck, twining in the thick, messy waves of her hair, drawing her face up to his. Her lips parted as if to speak and he kissed her, breathing her in, a feeling like coming home and softly closing the door behind him._

_He held to her to his chest, wishing that he'd thought for once to remove his steel chestplate. It was funny how unwieldy armour always managed to interfere in the most romantic scenes of his life._

"_In case that doesn't fully answer your question, I will elaborate," he said. "I have never stopped loving you."_

_She tilted her face up at him, her eyes large and glimmering with unshed tears. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you everything. I don't regret my decision, but I am sorry that I made it alone."_

"_What you are is stubborn. You knew that if you told me, you might not get your way," he said. "If you didn't have a good heart, I think you could have been a dangerous woman, my dear."_

"_But you understand," she said slowly, her intonation wavering between a statement and a question._

_He nodded. "Yes, Kass. I do understand. And I marvel at your strength."_

_She released a deep sigh and tears began to run down her cheeks. She mopped them up with her fingertips, giving nervous little laughs between sniffles. "So much for strength. I'm like a leaky faucet."_

"_I think you've earned it," he said. "Besides, we can take you to water the garden. If you haven't already destroyed all the flowers." _

_She laughed, tossing the rose stem over the side of the railing. "You haven't visited the Chantry yet, have you? We should walk over there and you can see."_

"_The Chantry? You don't even like the Chantry."_

"_Well, not the inside of the Chantry, where all the preachy humans are. But the outside of the Chantry, that's different! Come on, I'll show you." She caught his hand and pulled him along, laughing, and he laughed as well, all too ready to follow her lead again. _

_Once they'd passed the Chanter's Board and reached the Chantry gates, he realized the source of her excitement. Around the solid stone foundations of the Lothering Chantry, there was a garden growing, budding rosebushes and trellises hung with red and white blooms. _

_They walked into the garden, hand in hand. A bumblebee buzzed past them, creeping deep into the folds of a blossoming flower. Somewhere in the garden, a lark was singing._

"_I'm dreaming," he said. _

_Kass looked up at him, her face solemn. "You are. You made this place. The rest of us are just visitors here."_

"_So you aren't real, are you?"_

_She gave his hand a squeeze, her small fingers twining around his large ones. "Now I never said that. I may not be living in your realm, but I'm quite real, thank you very much!"_

"_But when I awaken..."_

"_Then this dream will be over. I'll be in my own place."_

_He smiled at her, the sharp, short smile he used to veil his impatience. "And where exactly will you reside? Will I be receiving an invitation to visit? You're being very mysterious."_

"_I'm not doing it to tease you. I just don't know the answers."_

"_Then you don't know if we'll meet again?"_

"_I can't be sure about anything here," she said. "But I hope so. I believe so. As you said, I'm very stubborn." _

_He turned to her and her eyes widened, seeming to drink in all the afternoon sunlight. Around them, the garden swayed in a gentle breeze, the branches bobbing as if nodding down at them, petals scattering on the ground._

"_I'll find you," he said. "Even if you try to flee, because I tell bad jokes at inappropriate times and have my name stitched in all my socks and have a tendency to ramble and digress...wait, what was I saying?"_

_She laughed. "You were telling me how you plan to stalk me through the Fade."_

"_Oh, yes, of course. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid. You'll just have to endure it."_

"_It's a good thing I love you or eternity could feel like a very long time," she said. "You don't really still wear socks with your name stitched in them?"_

"_No, I gave up that little habit. It would take a rare sort of villain to be bold enough to steal the Royal Socks."_

"_Time has passed, hasn't it? A long time," she said. _

"_Yes. Nearly thirty years."_

"_Where are they now? Our friends?"_

"_Well, Oghren, he bought the Spoiled Princess over at Lake Calenhad. I think he and Felsi are still running it. No big surprise there, I think."_

"_I can't believe she fell for his terrible pick-up lines."_

"_Well, you fell for my terrible pick-up lines. I guess you female types aren't very sensible."_

"_How very... true," she said. "But don't stop now. I know how you like to gossip." _

"_Hmm, so it's juicy gossip, you want, is it? Alright, I will indulge your baser instincts," he replied. "So, if rumors are to be believed, Zevran is basically running the Crows out in Antiva. Doesn't seem to be half bad at it, either."_

"_He's a professional."_

"_Oh and the last time I saw Lelianna, she was going on a research expedition with Brother Genitivi. And if you want to hear the gory truth, she seemed a bit enamored with him, which is - well, very odd, in my opinion. But let's hope that I'm wrong and they're just very good and holy and want to go see the Sacred Ashes, because I would prefer not to contemplate the alternative."_

_Kass shrugged. "He's a very smart man. Some people might find that attractive."_

"_Well, I hope you don't."_

"_No. I like you." On her tiptoes, she just managed to kiss his chin, something that he'd always found quite adorable. _

"_Thank you, that's very – wait!" He narrowed his eyes at her, feigning suspicion. "That was an insult."_

"_Was it?"_

"_You just implied that you're only attracted to unintelligent people and then you said you were very fond of me. I'm quite insulted. You've cut me to the quick."_

"_I'm sorry." She gave him an impish grin. "But you have to admit, you set me up for that one. Speaking of nasty sarcastic elves, how's Shianni? And Soris?"_

"_Shianni runs everything," he said. "Not simply in the Alienage. In the world. She's quite terrifying."_

_Kass shook her head. "You have no idea. She was even worse when we were growing up."_

"_Soris is another matter. He eloped with a bann's younger daughter and there was a big scandal and everyone's heads exploded. You would have liked it. It was entertaining."_

_She laughed, resting her head against his chest. "That would have been worth seeing."_

_He looked down at the top of her head, the cool white line of her neck and it occurred to him that she was burying her face against his armour to hide her tears. _

"_I enjoyed it immensely," he replied, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Although, I must admit, it caused a bit of mess in the Bannorn."_

"_Let me guess - some fool started shooting his mouth off about how you sympathize with all the dirty, filthy knife-ears who'd like to burn down nobles' homes and do all kind of foul elvish things to their wives and children."_

_He gave a nervous laugh. "Um, yes, that's surprisingly accurate."_

_She lifted her face, her eyes glistening. Her lips twitched a little at the sides, struggling into something that was not quite a smile, not quite a frown. "It would have been much worse, you know. If I'd been there."_

_He folded his arms around her, keeping his gaze steady upon her face, wanting to be strong for her if only to affirm the staunchness of his convictions. "I wouldn't have cared."_

_She closed her eyes, her wet lashes fanning against her cheek. "You might have. In time."_

"_No. I would have given anything to have you there."_

_She turned back and his eyes followed hers to the mossy Chantry wall, where white roses drooped on their branches, their bloom almost blown._

"_You're good to me," she said. "I don't know why it bothers me now. It doesn't matter anymore. Tell me some more news of the world. Did Sten come storming in to invade Ferelden?"_

"_No, not yet anyway. Bit of a shock actually. He wasn't very happy with me when he left Denerim. I said a few things I probably shouldn't have. After Fort Drakon."_

_He felt her hand wriggle free from his grasp and he wondered if he'd said something wrong, if he should have protested more when she'd changed the subject. She flitted off to one of the rose bushes, brushing her fingers over a flower's tattered white petals. _

"_You have to admit: Sten was very good at following orders," she said. "I told him I was going to kill that archdemon and he moved earth and sky to make it happen."_

"_Yes," he said, watching a shaft of sunlight weave over the auburn braid looped at the back of her head. "He's quite heavy, too, I might add. My back has never been quite the same, since he decided to jump on it."_

"_Sorry." When she said it, it came out blunt and flat and embarrassed. That was how he knew she meant it. _

"_If I'd dodged him, I could have outrun you," he said._

"_That's why it's sometimes necessary to have a Plan B. Or a very large Qunari friend." She turned around, her cupped hand full of white petals. A wan smile on her face, she tossed them in the air and they drifted down, sprinkling across the grass like wedding confetti. _

_He stepped closer, careful to avoid trampling the path of petals with his muddy boots. _

_She bit her lips and laughed, as he pressed a hand down upon her shoulder, as much to keep her in one place as to console her._

"_I should probably tell you about your father now. And Wynne. And Cairn."_

"_They move through the Fade now. It's okay. I know," she murmured. "It's the living who I don't see, who I think I'm starting...not to understand," she said. "Have you been alright, Alistair? Since I've been gone?"_

"_I don't quite know how to respond to that," he said. "Yes, I suppose I've been just fine. I've worked things out. For a while, I wasn't sure I would. Having children, that made me happier, helped to settle me down a bit."_

_Her voice came soft and husky. "Children? More than one. Wow. What are their names?"_

_He smiled. "Well, there's Brendan, he's my eldest. And then I have two daughters, Ilona and Rowen. Of course, they aren't really children anymore, but that doesn't stop me from pretending."_

"_That – that's wonderful." She fidgeted with her hair, tucking loose strands back behind her ears, a sure sign that it was not quite as wonderful as she said._

"_I'm sorry. I know I must sound...callous."_

_She shook her head. "You don't. You're just reporting the facts."_

"_Well, they're rather significant facts. I'd understand if you felt angry."_

"_It's just that sometimes, I used to think that maybe we'd – but it was just dreaming. Like you are now," she said. "I'm not anybody's mother anyway. I'm good with darkspawn, not kids. Shianni and I were the worst babysitters in the Alienage."_

_He tilted his head slightly, peering down into her blue-gray eyes. "I would never wish away my family, but yes, I've wondered, how things might have been, under other circumstances, in another life."_

"_Maybe it's best not to think about that too much," she answered, a little too quickly. "If I wasn't an elf, I wouldn't be me. If we weren't Grey Wardens, we'd never have met. One life and one set of circumstances is more than enough for anybody."_

_He tried for levity. "When I first saw you, I believe I did mention that the Blight brings people together. Such a great opening line. I could tell you were instantly smitten."_

_It was good to see her smile again. "I thought you were funny."_

"_Funny. Hmm."_

_He contemplated that, raking a finger over the stubble on his chin. It was a bit surprising to find himself mostly clean-shaven again, having spent more than a decade with a square-cut beard that he'd initially attempted in imitation of Duncan. _

"_Alright. I'll accept that," he said at last. "In a good, amusing sort of way or in an odd, crazy, one-sword-short-of-an-armoury sort of way?"_

_Her smile grew. "Honestly?"_

"_Do I want to hear this? Okay, yes. Honestly." _

"_A little bit of both," she said. "I did think you were very handsome for a human. And, well, tall. Very big feet."_

"_I see. So not instantly smitten, then? Did all my wit and belligerent posturing to the mage fail to impress you?"_

"_Oh, c'mon now, you weren't hopelessly in love with me at Ostagar either."_

_He chuckled, amused to discover that, after all these years, he was still capable of blushing. "Oh, I had a little schoolboy crush even back then. It's all too embarrassing for words."_

"_Really? Now, this, I didn't know. I always thought you were laughing at me. Elven paranoia, I guess."_

"_Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I fancied you a bit from the first, which was awkward because - well, for lots of reasons. But the Joining, that was a big one," he said."Of course, I do like to laugh at you too."_

"_You're not the first person to tell me that."_

_He embraced her, kissing the top of her head. "Besides, what can I say? Pretty, short and bossy, that's a winning combination for me. The cute ears were a bit of a bonus."_

"_Pretty and short, I'll give you. And I do have very nice ears, although a human is hardly qualified to judge. But -" She raised a finger, giving it a self-important shake. "I'm hardly bossy at all. You just liked to be bossed around and since I'm a nice person and I like to see you happy, I told you what to do."_

_He shook his head, smirking at her powers of self-delusion. "And did Daveth and Ser Jory also like to be bossed around? Because you were always tossing orders at them too, poor souls."_

"_Well, they listened, didn't they?" she persisted. "It can't have bothered them too much."_

_He raised an eyebrow at her and waited for her to relent under the sheer weight of evidence._

"_Okay, you're right," she said. "I may be a little bossy. On occasion. So, tell me, do you still take orders?"_

"_It's been a very long time since anyone has given me an outright order," he warned. "But I think I can make an exception for you, my love."_

"_Then I think you should hurry up and kiss me. And this time, make it good and hard, on the lips."_

_He felt a smile spread across his face, warming his cheeks. He was reminded of those nights of long ago, so fraught with tension and excitement, when they had lingered late by the campfire, talking about everything and nothing and the air between them roiled with secret intents._

"_Your wish is my command."_

_As her lips pressed against his, he closed his eyes, the perfume of roses so heavy upon them that he could feel it like a veil laid over her face, a cloak draped upon his shoulders._

_The red light behind his eyelids dissolved so suddenly into darkness._

He awoke to the sound of water dripping against stone and the noise of his own ragged breathing. The pain in his back nagged at him again, his half-starved stomach joining in to chide him with a series of groans and whimpers. He ached all over.

It was difficult to take up his sword again. Over the past few hours of slumber, his hands had become numb and swollen, his knucklebones turned into ugly white knobs under reddened skin. He set to kneading at the joints of his fingers, easing the stiffness out of them until he could hold the hilt with a firm grip.

All pain aside, it would be good to fight again in the uncertain darkness, armed with the knowledge that no matter which path he took, he would always be winding a way towards her love.

Casting his shield away, he walked towards the deeper roads.


End file.
